


Honey, Don't Feed It

by QTCutie (Qtcutie)



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qtcutie/pseuds/QTCutie
Summary: "Jacob can stand. Rook can’t. That’s probably the only thing that keeps Rook from tearing Jacob’s throat out with bare hands and dull teeth. Jacob stands and takes two quick steps back, and snarls when Rook half-collapses onto the dusty floor. Because it wasn’t supposed to-- it wasn’t supposed to be like this, Rook on his knees, Jacob standing over him."





	1. best laid plans

**Author's Note:**

> What is it about Hozier that makes me want to write about Jacob Seed?

The thing is--

The thing is, Jacob had a plan. Kind of. He isn’t like Joseph, doesn’t know every step before he takes it. And he isn’t like John, _ pretending _ to know where he’s going as he wanders down the most twisted and shrouded of paths. But. Jacob has enough sense in his head to plan out how dangerous situations might go. To get his head used to the rush before his body is forced to catch up.

Jacob _ had _ a plan as to how he was going to confront Rook Wylde. Because John is… gone, somewhere, hidden where Jacob can’t touch, and Faith is burning her precious Bliss like Lilith turned Demon beneath Eden and the crushing weight of a guilty Earth, but Jacob, Jacob is loyal to a fault. He loves his family, Joseph and John and Faith, whatever side of the line they’re sitting on, and if is means bending his knee to Richard “Rook” fucking Wylde to straddle the line between them, well… Jacob’s bent his knee to worse people. 

The plan, though, was to do it on Jacob’s turf. On Jacob’s terms. Make a show of it, just Jacob and Rook and the truth of anger and loyalty between them. Make it count for something, because if he can’t make a good first impression Jacob is damn well going to make a lasting one. 

The thing is--

The thing is, this wasn’t supposed to be how it went. 

Rook is curled in the corner of the shack with a wadded up tee against his head to stem the bleeding, and it’s not ideal, but it’s the best thing they can do with the supplies they have. And Jacob is pretty sure that there’s a broken rib hidden under all those layers and loose shirts Rook chooses to wear, and a hell of a lot more bruising, but he can’t get close enough to check because every time he so much as shifts in Rook’s direction Rook bares his teeth and there’s something about _ Rook _ hissing that makes Jacob want to bare his neck in a way that no other Omega has managed. Not John, who’s got Jacob unironically wrapped around his little finger. Not any of the Chosen, the Pack of humans that Jacob picked by hand and trials of fire. 

Just Rook, beaten and bruised half to hell, flexing his hand where he landed hard and wrong, and Jacob would worry about a sprained wrist if that weren’t literally the least dire injury in this case.

Just Rook, who hid this whole time. Under the clean scent of his uniform, under the rubbed-off scent of a dozen other Resistance Alphas. Under the raised chin and bared fangs and barked orders and human skin-- never his furs, _ never _ his furs, that should have been a dead fucking giveaway, and now Jacob’s here, beating himself over his head for his own stupidity for _ missing _ this. 

On one hand, Jacob wants to turn and walk out the door. Find who did this, even if it’s one of his own Chosen, and pay them back tenfold. Because Joseph might be angry at his plans falling apart, and Rook might be purposefully antagonistic at times, but that’s no excuse to ignore sour-citrus-spoiled-milk scent of distress that curls thick as wet woodsmoke through the air. On the other hand, leaving an injured Omega alone and scared, even with a Judge to guard him, grates Jacob to his very core, fur prickling beneath his skin in a way that itches like mad. 

Jacob knows better, though, than to let his fur out here, right now. He won’t be able to do anything if he does, for one, and for another Rook might actually hurt himself worse shifting in response. They heal faster, in their furs, but broken ribs… it’s a dangerous balancing act. Gotta shift carefully, or it’s gonna get dislodged somewhere in the process. Jacob’s seen bigger wolves brought low by less. And Rook, Rook’s so _ little _ . Curled up like he is now, desperate to protect himself and to shy from the pain, Jacob can see just how small Rook is. Jacob’s not the biggest Alpha, but he’s an Alpha, muscled, broad in the shoulders. Rook isn’t _ weak _ by any measure, and he sure as Hell cuts an intimidating figure when he wants to, but. A few inches here and there. 

Small, but fierce-- Jacob keeps his hands where Rook can see them, keeps his head down and his shoulders around his ears and his movements slow, textbook approaching a cornered Omega, and Rook’s chest _ rumbles _ , the closest to a proper growl Jacob’s ever heard from an Omega. It makes Jacob want to flip on his back, show his soft spots, even though he knows that, if Rook weren’t injured, he’d try to get his claws into them. Except, Rook _ is _ injured, head bleeding sluggishly through the off-white fabric, and Jacob swallows tightly.

“Rook,” he says, and his voice isn’t used to gentle, scrapes hard at that low a register, but he doesn’t want any of this to come off as a command. Rook growls, and Jacob pitches his voice high instead, brushing a proper whine, if only because it snaps the glassiness out of Rook’s eyes. “Rook, please. You’ve probably got a concussion. Just.” Jacob pauses. Licks his lips. Chooses his words a little more carefully. He’s never been good with words, but he’s only got one chance at this, before Rook, injured or no, throws him out on his ass.

“Rook,” he says slowly, low and gentle as he can manage. “C’mon Rook. Please, let me-- Tell me what you need.”

He’s not sure what does it, the _ please _ or the idea of him bending to Rook’s words, but Rook. Well, he doesn’t growl again when Jacob shuffles an inch closer, and then another few inches, and he doesn’t snap when Jacob’s close enough to reach out and gently, gently, pull the tee away from Rook’s head. There’s a rough looking gash there, all red and tattered edges, but. No swelling, and the bleeding looks to be slowing just fine. The impact probably did more damage. Rattled Rook’s head in his skull. Jacob’s rumbling before he even registers the sound, a low half-purr growl he can’t hope to help. Rook doesn’t lean into the sound, but. He doesn’t lean away from it either. Little victories. 

“Alright,” Jacob breathes, trying to keep the rumble out of his voice at least. “Just. Can you hold that there for me? Just for a little bit longer, I think. And I-- Will you let me check your ribs?”

“I’ve got a medical degree, ya know,” Rook slurs, but he’s fighting to keep his eyes focus-sharp as he presses the wadded fabric back against his head. Jacob waits, patient, for him to shift his weight onto his other hip, stretching just enough that everything’s out of the way when Jacob goes to lift the hem of his shirt. “Well. Nursing school. Few more weeks, and I was gonna see if I could get in at the hospital.”

Of course he was. Rook isn’t a violent person. He’s a fierce one, an independent one, doesn’t take well to orders, but he’s not violent. Not Wrathful. Jacob lets out a slow breath as he passes a hand over the bruising that climbs Rook’s ribs, not touching, yet, just. There’s no tell-tale pattern of a broken rib, no depressions of awkward angles. Just a lot of bruising, some cracks at worst. It’s not good, but it’s not as bad as Jacob had feared. 

His thumb brushes the soft skin just beneath Rook’s ribcage, and Rook. Freezes. Like a deer in the headlights, eyes bright and wide as he tries hard to keep his breathing under control. And Jacob shouldn’t, he _ knows _ he shouldn’t, but he’s got an Omega panicking inches away and even steel bends with enough pressure. John tells him he smells like pine and old wool, and Joseph says it’s like home and hearthfire, but Rook whips around like there’s blood in the water when Jacob pushes his scent, teeth bared as he half-lunges for Jacob’s throat.

Jacob can stand. Rook can’t. That’s probably the only thing that keeps Rook from tearing Jacob’s throat out with bare hands and dull teeth. Jacob stands and takes two quick steps back, and snarls when Rook half-collapses onto the dusty floor. Because it wasn’t supposed to-- it wasn’t supposed to be like _ this _, Rook on his knees, Jacob standing over him. Rook gasps and pants through a clenched jaw, but he doesn’t whine, and fuck if that doesn’t have Jacob kneeling at Rook’s side again anyway, one hand on his back against the bumps of ribs there, the other steadying his trembling chest.

“You can’t--” Jacob swallows. Hisses out a breath as Rook leans his weight ever slightly into his hand. “If you’re gonna wolf out, Rook, you gotta do it fast. You can’t hesitate. Don’t give your ribs time to settle wrong.” 

Rook shakes his head hard, whining subvocals as he finally pitches the rest of the way into Jacob, letting Jacob take his full weight, not even struggling when Jacob shifts him around so he can rest in Jacob’s lap and Jacob can pick the shirt back up and press it against Rook’s head again. “Can’t,” he slurs, eyes unfocused, just. _ Gone _ . As he shakes like it’s below freezing in here and not too-warm with early Autumn heat. “Can’t. Jacob I-- I _ can’t _.”

“It’s alright,” Jacob murmurs, soothing as he knows how to be, and this is a horrible angle but he forces his head down anyway, brushes his nose carefully over the curve of Rook’s shoulder, half-scenting, heady with the way Rook just. Slumps. Like it’s too much to even hold himself up in Jacob’s arms anymore. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Assurances and apologies chanted over and over until Jacob’s lips are dry and his throat is hoarse with them, because he knows better than to let Rook drift off into sleep for too long, but Rook pitches a whine every time Jacob has to shake him gently awake again. It gets to the point that Rook just stops trying, staring blankly at the middle distance or blinking like he’s not sure when or where he is anymore. And the thing is.

The thing is. 

Jacob lets Rook’s nose rest against the hollow of his throat because it feels right. And he’s not good at-- at _ gentle _, but between just holding Rook and the Judge finally padding over to curl against Rook’s knee when the sour-citrus-spoiled-milk scent begins to fade, they get him to something like relaxed, until he smells like fresh oranges and sweet cream. There’s a perfectly good couch right there, Jacob thinks, but Rook isn’t going to want to move, and Jacob. Well, he could make him. But he won’t. 

The thing is, he’s always been weak for this kind of thing. Pack contact. Comfort and closeness and the way an Omega goes limp at the thick burr of an Alpha’s purr. His knees and back are going to ache like Hell when this is over, Jacob’s sure. It’s worth it, though. This definitely wasn’t the plan, but this is definitely worth it.

“I’m so tired,” Rook finally whispers, hours later, the first words he’s managed since Jacob found him, and Jacob hums. 

“I’ll get you back home,” Jaccob murmurs. “We’ve got a doctor there, honey. He’ll check over you, and then you can sleep.”

Rook shakes his head, barely a movement before Jacob’s holding him still again. “Nah. I’m _ tired _, Jake. I’m so. So tired.”

Bone-deep tired. _ Soul-deep _tired. The kind of tired that curls in your chest and drags you down like concrete in water. Yeah, Jacob gets that. Curls around Rook until Rook scents him, dragging his nose over Jacob’s collarbone in slow, lazy motions. Jacob didn’t bring his truck down here-- he was hunting when he caught the scent of blood and distress, wasn’t thinking. But.

“Think you can hold on if I shift, baby?” Jacob coos, and winces when Rook whines high and distressed. “I’m gonna get you somewhere good, I promise. Somewhere safe. You can make yourself a little nest and sleep for as long as you like, alright? Just let me get you there.” 

It takes a minute. The Judge has to hold Rook up for a bit while Jacob shakes his fur out, gets used to the feeling of being on all fours again by pacing a few tight circles. This has always felt. Better. More natural. He’s big, for a wolf, a bit small for an Alpha, but more than big enough to carry Rook when he sprawls over Jacob’s back, arms around Jacob’s neck like a loose, warm collar. 

The Judge runs ahead, howling at the new moon to clear their path, and Jacob swallows his own howl as he follows. He can’t run like this, but it’s definitely faster than trying to get Rook to stumble and trip his way up the mountain in the dark. Safer, if nothing else, because the Judge will make anything short of another Alpha hesitant to approach, and once they cross the lines into Jacob’s proper territory there isn’t anyone who’s going to lay a hand on Rook without Jacob’s consent or Jacob’s fangs. 

And there isn’t anyone who’s going to question Jacob when he trots up to the Veteran Center dressed in furs with Rook on his back, except to ask if he needs someone to wake up the doctor. There isn’t anyone who’s going to ask him to shed his furs either, even when they lift Rook onto a gurney. Jacob just walks as close as he can get without jumping up with Rook, and they move around him like it isn’t any trouble. 

There aren’t any other Wolves at the Veteran Center, is the thing. There hasn’t been another Wolf in Hope County since the Seeds moved here, and Jacob knows that Joseph took that as a sign that this was their territory, to lead and shepard their Flock of humans. And for a while there, Jacob agreed-- his brothers were all the Pack he needed, even when the going got tough. But when Jacob finally gets Rook into a dark room and a proper bed, he can’t help the doubt that worms under his skin. 

Jacob is loyal to a fault, but sometimes that means admitting they were wrong.


	2. wont say im in love

Rook never did get the hang of waking all at once.

His sister always laughed at him for being such a bad morning person, when they were little, but he’s always woken slowly, bit by bit, sense by sense. It’s the one bad habit that the army couldn’t beat out of him-- Wolf instincts, rooted deep, is what Rook always chalked it up to. He hears first, then feels, smells, and only then opens his eyes, no matter how long that takes. 

He hears the wind through the trees. The chatter of a camp waking up in the morning. The ceiling fan clicking and the AC humming. The slow, huffing rise and fall of a Wolf. He feels the bed underneath him, the sheets around him, the weight of a couple blankets and a Wolf on his flank. Big. Alpha, filling the room with the steadying scent of pine and ash in a hearth fire, and, beneath that, the dusty scent of old sheets and blankets from the back of the closet. Rook takes a big gulp of it, lets it ease out the jagged edges of headaches and rough bruises. 

The room is unused to use at best, spartan at worst. The blinds over the windows are meant to block out most of the light, leaving the room lit by the rays that sneak around the sides. Jacob is a void on Rook’s hip, still in his furs, curled tight around himself with his nose under his tail. And it’s easier now than it was last night, having Jacob this close, because Rook isn’t hurting AND fresh off the adrenaline high of a rolling fight way too close to a cliff’s edge, of throwing someone over and knowing that it could have easily, easily been him. 

Nah, Rook’s just plain ol’ sore, all up his back and through his shoulders, pounding on his head and his knees like a shift gone bad. Except, there was no shift. Rook hasn’t shifted proper in… what, a year? Year and a half? More like two, probably. He’s never felt great in his furs anyways. Too small for anyone to take him seriously in a fight, too bright a color to run and hide. Got that arctic white coloring from his mother. Distinctive, to say the least. Makes Rook wish he were more like his redmane father or his off-brown sister some days.

Rook reaches out to grab a gentle handful of Jacob’s hair, refamiliarizing himself with the feeling of fur. It’s on the coarse side of soft. Jacob takes care of himself, at least, Wolf and skin. Rook snorts: his own fur is probably gonna feel like brittle straw. Not that Rook doesn’t know how to take care of himself. His parents, they were proud to be Pack, made sure to have a Pack around them to teach their kids to be proud too. Rook just  _ hasn’t _ been taking care of himself, is the thing. Big difference there.

His memory of last night is, admittedly, kinda patchy after the hit to the head, but Rook’s got some clear moments. Being trapped in that hunting shack with Jacob, fighting between what he  _ knew _ would keep him safe and what he  _ felt _ would keep him safe. The rough pitch of Jacob’s whine, unpracticed and raw and all the more convincing for it. Gentle, calloused hands. Fur beneath his cheek. Rook tries to process it now that he feels mostly in the clear, but it’s hard to keep his brain on track, everything trying tumbling over itself to call itself important.

It’s something unnerving, feeling someone not-Pack shifting against his side. Bones shifting and popping as the fur cedes to skin and Jacob is stretched out bare beside him and their both staring at the off-white of the ceiling and the ceiling fan going round and round. He doesn’t push his scent around the moment he wakes up like his brother does, thank God. Just shifts it a little now that he’s alert and aware, lets it settle again where he wants it. Doesn’t shove it in Rook’s face like John would. Which is. More practical than nice, really, Rook is pretty sure he’d throw up if Jacob did. 

“Doc says bedrest for a day at least,” Jacob rumbles, voice sleep-thick and somehow still too-loud, and Rook’s scent must go sour because Jacob tones it down a little. Doesn’t mellow, but. Gentles. “More, if you’re not gonna wolf out."

Rook huffs. Lets Jacob curl in closer, run his nose over the curve of Rook's shoulder. Scenting. It feels a little weird, letting an Alpha who's not part of his Pack do that, but. It's Jacob. John's been part of Rook's makeshift Pack long enough that it doesn't feel as weird as it probably should. "Didja get a prognosis?"

Concussion. Cracked rib. Strained wrist with the potential of a hairline fracture, can't be sure without an x-ray. General bruising and dehydration. Nothing as bad as it could be, but. Not great. Because there's not much Rook can do except rest and let it heal. But at least Jacob is polite enough to not relay any comments the doctor might have had about an unbonded Omega this old getting into scraps. If Rook had a dollar for every time a doctor, nurse, or coworker gave him "well-meaning" advice about his bonding status, he wouldn't have been working at the Hope County Sheriff's Office. 

Not great, but not as bad as it could be. Rook lets out a slow breath as he turns this over in his head. He can probably go another day without reporting back to the Whitetails before they start worrying over his absence. A full week, if he could get on a radio and tell them he's good, but his radio is currently under some asshole's body at the bottom of a cliff, and Rook's still not sure if he's a guest here, or a prisoner. 

Besides, Rook's got a den now. A makeshift thing, sure, probably a little small and bare by proper Omega standards, but. Rook likes it. It smells like Nick and Kim and Sharky and John, and Eli to a lesser extent. Grace has contributed probably a dozen blankets, though they’ve all but given up on proper pillows because Peaches likes to take them outside to play with and them Boomer gets his teeth into them and it’s. A real mess. And the thought of being so far from his nest for so long, injured and stuck in the middle of some strange Alpha's territory, makes Rook uneasy. 

“You hungry?” Jacob asks, and he’s trying so hard to sound casual, but Rook can’t help but smile at the little tight edge in Jacob’s voice. It’s good to know that the Alpha is just as uncomfortable in Rook’s presence as Rook is in Jacob’s. Puts them on the same playing field. Not a great field. But it’s the same field, and that’s. A start, Rook supposes. You’ve gotta start somewhere. 

“You got something other than MREs?”

Jacob snorts. Flips onto his stomach so that they’re shoulder to shoulder, about the limit of physical contact that Rook is willing to allow. Jacob is so warm, like a living fucking furnace. Makes Rook's skin prickle with new sweat beneath the dirt and dried grime and eugh, Rook  _ really _ needs a bath. A shower. Fuck, he'll take a dunk in the river right now just to feel cleanish. Cleaner than he feels now.

They fall into a companionable enough silence, Jacob unwilling to move, Rook incapable of so much as sitting up under his own power without feeling like he’s been rolled down the mountain wrapped in a single, insufficient patch of carpet. And the ceiling isn’t really interesting, but it makes a good enough whiteboard for Rook to throw his thoughts against until something sticks and one of the fragments of a tangent forms an actual idea that he can take and run with. Except, the thought that sticks is that Jacob has a  _ really _ attractive back. Like. Not overly muscled, with a pretty dip at the small of his back and cute dimples just above where he isn’t wearing pants and Rook is going to steer his eyes back up to the ceiling now, thank you. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” Jacob asks conversationally. 

“Killing you in your sleep,” Rook replies just as politely. And Jacob chuffs, but. Well. Rook is always kind of thinking about killing Jacob in his sleep. Because Joseph is radical and unchanging and John is rattled somewhere deep where he might have been someone’s Pack at some point and yearns to be part of that again, and Faith is desperate and so achingly human, but Jacob is.

The thing is, Jacob is someone Rook can see himself spending a heat with. Kinda. Bear-built. Broad in the shoulders. He would be polite, Rook is sure. Gentlemanly, almost. Asking nicely before he got anywhere near Rook’s nest, scenting and soothing and gentle, gentle, gentle. The kind of Alpha who’d stay the night and bring Rook breakfast in bed and--

The thing is, Jacob is someone Rook could see himself falling in love with. And it  _ sucks _ . Because Jacob bumps his shoulder into Rook’s as he pushes himself up, and Rook feels his fur prickle beneath his skin in the best of worst of ways. Rook’s on his back, vulnerable and open, it wouldn’t take much for Jacob to slip between his legs and settle himself there, teeth against Rook’s throat, and Rook can’t even say he would mind it. 

“I’m gonna get you something to eat,” Jacob says, as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket and. Nothing else. Sharing his youngest brother’s habit of wearing the bare minimum, Rook supposes, and keeps his eyes purposefully on the ceiling. “Something to drink too. Shower’s across the hall. Feel free to clean yourself up.”

Rook grumbles, “You sayin’ I stink, Jacob Seed?”

“I’m sayin’ that laying in your own filth probably ain’t doing you any good,” Jacob shoots back, but. He smiles, a little curl at the corner of his lips that sends Rook’s heart leaping in his chest. 

Fuck.

_ Fuck _ .

Rook is in way too deep.


End file.
